


Dark Secrets

by clamotte



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:26:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clamotte/pseuds/clamotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No dark secrets, they'd been told, not if you value your life. Centered on Patsy and Trixie, this fic explores how some secrets are inescapable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**I**

She couldn’t sleep. She lay tossing under the cold sheets and finally checked the clock by the faint light that fell on the nightstand. “2:00” Too early for her morning shift, and yet too late to find someone to talk to, to distract herself. She wrinkled her eyes shut. Like lightening, there were flashes of red, cut by white light, then something in the periphery, the end of a man’s shoe, the glimmer of a bottle, the shards of glass, the scarlet pooling on the cream. A throbbing headache made her sit up. It was another migraine and they had been coming too frequently. She turned her lamplight on and reached under her bed, where she had stashed away the Campari. But her eye fell on a sheet of paper.

“Feel better – P”

How had she known? The last time they’d met on the stairs, they were going in opposite directions, she had rushed in after she’d left Tom, and Patsy was going to start her late shift. “Is everything all right?” She had wanted to go up quietly but she had walked towards her on the stairs. Her hand had brushed the back of her red cardigan, the touch seeping through the layers of her dress, the warmth spilling on her skin. It was so gentle, nothing asked for in return. Her feet felt leaden. She looked down instead at the worn dark carpet and noticed a wet leaf that she must have brought in, having been stuck to her muddy shoe. She bent down to pick it up but came face to face with Patsy. She had crossed in front of her. They had risen up to stand together, their eyes tracing each other’s faces. She didn’t know what she had seen in Patsy’s eyes, which were cloudy. She wanted to tell her then but everything would come out. So she had wrung herself free.

“I’m fine,” she said, turning back before she ran upstairs, “You’ll be late.” She had gone straight to the bathroom in the hallway and locked herself, only coming out when the tears had dried. She had washed her face but refused to look in the mirror. She knew what she’d see – her eyes bloodshot, her cheeks swollen, her lips raw from her having bitten them as she was so used to doing all those years ago.

It had been too much. Once she understood how much little Gary was trying to protect himself and his younger sisters, how he’d held on to dignity even at so young an age, how scared he’d been for an adult to notice him, it had all come apart. Or had it? For she had known all along, hadn’t she? And chosen to ignore it for fear of her own comfort. She nearly snorted at that. Comfort. She had run away from home and into the grueling work of midwifery, among all the risk and death and even threats from her superiors, into Poplar, with nuns who can be harsh as they are right, often distant but fiercely protective of her – for comfort? But now the migraine had kicked in, angry and insistent, and she knew she had to take something or sleep it off.

“In the hell that I grew up in, what was important was what we did, not some great show of sympathy and emotion.”

Hadn’t she said that once, when she had found her going through her things, the mementos she had hidden away in a tin box. Something about catching Patsy like that had made her own blood run cold. She thought about what she didn’t have, how the last things she’d keep are things from home. But she hadn’t told her that, then. She had just given her a reassuring smile and left her alone.

Could she have told her about today? A part of her wanted to, but then she wouldn’t be able to stop. She’d have made her late for her shift and it wasn’t an emergency anyway. Just another one of those moods she’d had, something Nurse Crane would scoff at, she was sure, as being indulgent and certainly nothing to be mended by a shot of Campari. No one would ridicule her, of course, but her “wallowing” was not exactly welcomed in Nonnatus. But come to think of it, neither did she welcome it herself. And yet, how could she forget? She’d lived it all as a child, and even though she’d believed she’d put it all away, being so much older and far from home and everything she knew, seeing the neglected children pushed her back.

She saw Beatrice, a girl in a faded dress, torn after one of his fits. Mum was away, she never knew where. But then, she was glad she was away. Mum wasn’t a child who could run away to the fields or hide under the bed. Grown-ups needed their own hiding place. And her father? He was kind to her, when he was well. He had nice brown eyes, like Tom’s. She frowned. She had told Tom how she’d been so afraid as a child. He had listened patiently, put his arm around her, and told her he would like to rub all her grief away.

“You can’t understand.” And he couldn’t. He may have seen a lot of hardship in his parish, but he hadn’t lived it. It hadn’t woken him up at night, left him cold and hungry, searching for someone to hold on to. His father had been a clergyman, they had a nice home in the country. His brothers and sisters were happily married and had children of their own. It seemed worlds away. Is that why she had gone to him, to escape, like all the other things she’d done?

She wanted to tell someone of the desolation, the secrets. Not the nice things about her, but the wreckage she’d left, the ties she’d severed, the memories she’d burnt, the needs she’d smothered. Sometimes she felt she elicited pity, the classic damsel in distress. And she had played it well too. Everyone knew she was pretty, that she needed protection, that she mustn’t suffer. But she’d managed to leave, hadn’t she? She was proud, a small part of her was proud still, for how far she’d come.

Her head was pounding furiously by now and she didn’t want to be in her own bed. Somehow it seemed mocking, as if full of her taint.

She crossed to Patsy’s side of the room and stopped. Although they had been roommates for what? A year? She hadn’t gone to her space unbidden. Certainly not after that day when she had tried to borrow her pocket mirror and Patsy had become upset. Since then, she had drawn a circle around her bed, as if to say she couldn’t cross it. She was careful about privacy, just as she had wanted others to give her. But even after their long work nights, full of stories, they had turned towards each other and whispered in the dark until one of them had fallen asleep. But now she saw Patsy’s bed neatly covered by the bright green bedspread, the shade reminiscent of her eyes. Her nightstand was of the same design like hers but had no ornaments, not even a picture frame. It was probably in her tin box, probably under her bed, covered in shadows. She spotted her dressing gown on the floor near her wardrobe. She must have been in a hurry to leave for her shift, for Patsy was always neat. She picked up the dressing gown, the fabric plain and sturdy beneath her fingers, unlike the cool silk of her own. Going to hang it, she noticed that the wardrobe door slid open, revealing the neat rows of clothes. She didn’t have too many, not like her, not like the expensive dresses and stiletto shoes that she collected. But the colors were bright and elegant. She had liked her red slacks, which hung within reach. She remembered how well it had fit Pasty, how it had clung to her, giving a softness to her angles. She touched it, still-warm and half-filled as if Patsy had just slipped out of them. She ran the length of its legs, the fibers smooth and inviting. She smelled the cologne that lingered still. But she had come to set things right, not to take away. She suddenly felt very weak and her legs gave away so she let herself fall on her bed. She rested her head on her pillow.

The room had stopped spinning. The walls looked different, the pattern on the wallpaper muted, the pink bare, crack-free, a clean slate. Had they put in a new one? Her eyes fell on the flowers in the vase, the fragrance light and soothing. There were sprigs of rosemary and thyme, her favorites. She couldn’t stand other strong smells, had explained it only to a few people. They were bad for her migraines, was it gone now? It seemed so.

“Shall I take away the flowers?” Her voice was the same, soft, the edges calm, like the sureness of waves coming to shore, the water bubbling underneath. Had she asked her to read to her? They say your remembered things best just before you went to sleep. No, she didn’t mind. In fact, the herbs were good for her, like a balm over her aches. Patsy put a hand on her forehead and she closed her eyes, letting herself be taken care of, surrendering to the safety of her touch. Her hand had lingered, her fingers slightly brushing her eye lashes. She was afraid of the cold outside, the darkness ahead. She put a hand over hers.


	2. II

II

It was late when she finished her rounds. The baby had been difficult and all the years of extra training still made her feel inadequate. Two lives were at stake – it was always two. That was why she'd been drawn to midwifery, particularly high risk births, in the first place. Seeing the baby safely make its way into the world and having the mother survive was all she'd wanted to do. This baby, however, had been an emergency. Mrs. Poole, a neighbor of one of the patients she had visited that night, had required a second midwife and it was by sheer luck that she had been available. In the end, she was the one to hold the baby first as the other midwife tended to the mother. It gave her a strange sense of accomplishment – all live babies did. She herself had been a breech. Had her mother been proud, like Mrs. Poole? Had she sunk into the sheets, crying with relief and love that overwhelmed her? And Mother – what would she think of her now? She rubbed her eyes. She had to be strong for them all. She had to show them what she'd made for herself, how she'd survived.

"You were a fighter from the first, my little one. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

Had she? She'd come to Nonnatus House, after all. But why, when she could have worked in a hospital? When she could have had regular hours and gone home after her shift, instead of being governed by her patients or the timing their babies chose to come into the world? She could've afforded her own place, lived alone or with whomever she wished. She could've had parties at her place, invited anyone she liked. That's how she'd met Delia, at a friend's party the summer she worked at The London. At the thought of her, a tightness rose in her chest. She wanted to reach for her. She missed the warmth of her arms as she took her in, her eyes open and unquestioning as she spilled over, her touch quelling, for a time, the fires that raged.

But she must see Trixie. Trixie, who she'd met on the stairs just before she left, had looked so distraught that she'd wondered if she should be with her and get a replacement to cover her shift. She'd never seen her look like that in the years since she'd known her, since they'd been roommates. Her hair had come loose from its clips, there were black streaks on her face from the layers of mascara that had dissolved, and blood on her lips. She had seen her break down, here and there, as they both have, when work and its aftermath had overwhelmed them. But midwifery did that to one, took you to heights you never thought possible. Like joy, grief too had been severe, leaving a lasting mark not only on one's memories but body as well. She knew about her migraines, had watched her struggle through the nights, her eyes full of unquiet sleep. But Trixie always woke up the next day and got ready for work. Whether she dragged herself or sought solace in the busy hours, she didn't know. And yet, she'd looked so different on the stairs today, as if the weight of her was too much to carry upstairs. She had tried to guide her gently, her fingers stroking her cardigan, the touch, as it steadied them both, taking her by surprise. But Trixie had managed to escape upstairs, imploring her to go to work. And she had, after leaving her a note. How much faith had she put in a line, in merely a few words? Did words really have any power to change? Could they pull you back to shore, or did they let you drown? She thought of the diaries she had stashed away, how the sight of the yellow pages, the ink bleeding through them, had driven her to seek a cure for her patient. At the time, she hadn't let the words—or the lack of them—consume her as they had done in the past. For after all, wasn't the box of mementos a reminder of all she had lost, like her mother's letters that she could not save? She'd left the note under the bed, among the shadows that Trixie had retreated to, each new shot a means to dull her pain.

Would she put on airs the next day, pretending nothing happened? She was privy to her airs, of course, but had joked about them with her. And hadn't Trixie laughed about them herself, when they had talked late into the night and were sure no one would hear them? The fun they'd had, too, smoking in their room and talking frankly about the restrictions at Nonnatus, the trappings of their work, and the uncertainties in their futures. Trixie had confided to her her despair of ever getting married, how men seemed to not want her. She had replied that having a boyfriend wasn't everything, that there was more to relationships. "But people leave, men will lose interest, and women will forget you once they've had their babies." She couldn't deny that – she too had lost people she loved, friends. And lovers. But she didn't tell her that.

She'd asked her, instead, about her new dress. Besides being a distraction, it was dressing up in the latest styles that made Trixie's eyes light up. It was strange, Patsy thought, for a midwife to be so frivolous as Trixie appeared to be. After all, their free time was so limited, leaving even less time to indulge in clothes and parties. But it made Trixie happy so she listened. And how beautiful she looked in her well-cut gowns, the light sparking in her blue eyes, the blonde locks moulding the soft contours of her face. And every time she asked her to dance, she'd found herself both excited and shy, as she stood within inches of her, heady with her perfume, in her hair, on her neck. She'd felt the roundness of her arms encircling her, her heart beating through the thin fabric of her dress, as if the rhythm matched her own. She saw Barbara watching them cautiously the day she arrived, and wondered what an outsider would think when they saw how comfortable they were with each other, how well they fitted into each other's bodies, how there was no awkwardness or ceremony but just the music in their ears and the synchronicity of their steps as they danced. Then, she could feel Trixie, her breath on her cheek, her eyes burying into her own, her grip hard, as if she couldn't let go.

And yet.

She had come home and not told her but had run away from her. Had she told Tom? Or worse, had he upset her? She felt a stone on her path, the sharp edge stabbing her toes through her shoe. She wanted to let out a scream in pain. But it was too quiet and she wasn't used to it. She gulped down her tears and kicked the stone away so it rolled off to the far edges of the street, no longer a threat to any other walker in the night. If he'd hurt her, she'd confront him…and say what? That he should let her be free? That she shouldn't be stifled in any way? Had he, in fact, called off the wedding? She knew how devastating that would be to Trixie. She hadn't lived in the world, mixed with so many different people, to not know why some people sought certain things, choosing reputation over independence, the safety of conventionality over the risk of authenticity. Just because she had learnt to hide, how could she expect everyone else to? Just because she couldn't even talk about love, how could she expect others to not seek it?

"My little fighter."

A wave of nausea washed over her. In the dark, she groped for balance, finally resting on the side of large tree. She tilted her head as the bark dug into her forehead, marking her with its pattern of crosses. When she had learnt about the seriousness of her mother's illness, it was already too late. She had been so busy working in the camp that she hadn't noticed how her mother had grown tired and thin, how she'd been too weak to get out of bed. Once she had tried to break in to the women's camp, had even come close to seeing her mother sitting up, her shoulders hunched, retching into a rusty pail at her feet. It was that sound that reverberated with her in after years, a sound unlike anything she had heard, the notes of torment piercing the stale dark air, as if to rise above the injustice that led her to this point. Far away from home and family, her mother had died alone. What would Mother think of her now, of what she'd become? She searched for her mother's face, the way she had looked when they were happy, before the war had taken her. She used to sit on her mother's knee and tell her how she had felt like an outsider, never here nor there, too British for Singapore, too foreign for her English cousins, too posh, too wild, too different. But Mother had held her tight and made it all right, hadn't she? Kissed away her little hurts and said she was perfect the way she was. She longed to tell her now about little Susan the breech baby, the warmth that had drawn her to Nonnatus, the love that sustained and divided her. She wanted to tell her about Trixie.

She saw Nonnatus in the distance, the window to her room open. She quietly slid the key and entered and suddenly felt much lighter once her equipment bag was on the floor. She reached for the packet of herbs she'd gotten from Mrs. Poole's kitchen, tiptoed upstairs and gently turned the knob. And then she saw her, as the moonlight filtered through the curtain that beat swiftly in the cool breeze, lying on her bed. She was turned towards her but one of her hands was on the edge of her pillow, drawing it closer to her face. She hadn't changed her clothes, hadn't even taken her cardigan off. Some of the buttons of her uniform had come undone, revealing the hollow of her collarbones, her skin pale and smooth. As she shut the door and walked towards her, she caught the dried mark of her tears, the mascara splayed on her pillowcase. Her face was puzzling, as if the sleep had come and interrupted her thoughts. She bent closer.


End file.
